𝕻𝖔𝖎𝖓𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝕹𝖔 𝕽𝖊𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖓
𝔓𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤: 𝔄𝔯𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔵 𝔉𝔢𝔪𝔞𝔩𝔢 ℜ𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯
𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: 𝔙𝔞𝔪𝔭𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔪, 𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡, 𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔣𝔢𝔢𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔤, 𝔰𝔪𝔲𝔱, 𝔲𝔰𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔤𝔦𝔣𝔱, 𝔠𝔩𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔡 𝔰𝔢𝔵, 𝔭 𝔦𝔫 𝔳, 𝔠𝔲𝔫𝔫𝔦𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔰, 𝔲𝔰𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔟𝔞𝔡 𝔣𝔯𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔥, 𝔠𝔞𝔰𝔲𝔞𝔩 𝔩𝔬𝔰𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔳𝔦𝔯𝔤𝔦𝔫𝔦𝔱𝔶, 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔥𝔞𝔦𝔯 (ℑ'𝔪 𝔰𝔬 𝔰𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔶 𝔦𝔣 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔢𝔫 𝔱𝔬 𝔟𝔢 𝔟𝔞𝔩𝔡)
𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: This font is hard to read so it will not be written in it. Anyways, shoutout to 1790s Armand for living in my brain rent free. Also this is only inspired LIGHTLY by the phantom of the opera, this will depart somewhat from the canon of both iwtv and phantom of the opera. Also, Armand doesn't have a facial deformity in this, the mask represents him attempting to "mask" his identity. Please ignore any grammatical errors, I am not a grammarian. Also fuck generative AI.
𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 4.2K
"You are invited..." The words you had read only two weeks ago, an invitation to yet another gathering of socialites in yet another ostentatious setting. Your mother was most insistent on you going, you were her eldest child, and she has been desperate for you to get married. You had tried to reason with her.
"A masquerade is the worst kind of ball to try finding a husband! Mother please!"
And the words only slithered in one ear and out the other as she was already picking out your dress robes for the party. Your mask selected the next day when she had dragged you out to the shops in Paris.
And with a corset laced so tight you could barely breathe, you had been ushered from carriage to steps to ballroom...
You usually spent these events talking with other ladies at your reserved table, but they slowly are taken from the table. Slipping away as they are offered the hands of gentlemen asking for dances. Alone, you watch ladies dance, hearing the orchestra's music ring out into the space surrounding the sea of masked couples waltzing. If you listen closely enough you could hear their steps, in sync with one another. Past the waltzing sea, you thought you could see a lone man, standing across at the other side of the room, but the sight of him was quickly lost...It was at this point in the evening that the feeling of being watched would fail to leave you as the night continued.
You could feel his eyes on you from all the distances he had been in the room. He lingers, everywhere and nowhere all at once, for the moment you turn to try and see him... he disappears. For most of the evening, you could only capture glimpses. Brief. Fleeting. You stand, desperate for air, walking to the nearest balcony, opening the double doors, and looking out into the view of the night.
The cold of the night air embraced you, allowing you a respite from the heat of the room. The bodies all in one space... you hadn't realized it had been getting to you. All you felt was a rush, having spent the night circled like prey, watched by a man unknown to you. And the feeling, hadn't left. He was right behind you, staring at your figure on the balcony, your eyes unaware as you look up at the night sky. Steps across the floor, traveling to the double doors, as they open you could once more hear the distant symphonies of the orchestra. The doors close, you refuse to look back at your company despite your curiosity's screams. His steps hesitant, but halting nonetheless when he closes the distance, standing next to you.
"Vous êtes seul, pourquoi?" You are alone, why? His first words to you, his voice, soft and kind. You turn your head, looking at him. He had on a black mask, it covered down to his nose... and despite your restricted view of his face, a yearning filled your veins. Blood rushing through you as your heart's beats surpass its normal pace... His hair was tied back, a black bow securing it into place. The silk of the bow paralleled the look of his hair, you could tell it was soft just by looking... but you still wonder what it would feel like against your finger tips. You turn your head to look down at the city, hearing the clops of horse hooves as carriages are pulled along the cobblestones.
"J'ai été invitée, ma mère m'a obligée à venir ici." I was invited, my mother she made me come here. You could hear a soft hum from him in response. A shiver trails up your spine, you could feel it through the layers of your clothes. "Monsieur, pourquoi m'avez-vous suivi ?" Sir, why have you followed me?
"Vous me fascinez, mademoiselle." You mesmorize me, miss. He steps closer to you, the fabric of his clothes brushes against you. "Ton esprit, il tend la main vers moi." Your mind, it reaches for me.
"Qu'est-ce que tu dis?" What are you saying? You look at him, your head tilting up... you fixated on his eyes. They're ethereal... such a unique shade, one you'd never seen before. Even the mask couldn't hide their beauty.
"Votre main, mademoiselle. Puis-je danser avec vous ?" Your hand, please, miss. May I dance with you? The question makes your breath hitch. You glance at the door.
"S'il te plaît?" Please? You step hesitantly back towards the double doors. He walks over to them, opening them for you, offering you his hand. His hand was cold... gentle as he pulls you with him to the ballroom's dance floor. His other hand delicately places itself along your waist. The hand in yours simply repositioning to hold yours, he intertwines his fingers with yours. Intimate.
He leads you effortlessly through the dance. His eyes trailing over you. You could feel a rush through your body at every step and turn. You could feel yourself get closer and closer to him as the music progresses, carrying your movements along with him. His hand slips from your waist, over to your back, pushing you closer to him as his fingers spread along the fabric of your dress. The act makes you gasp softly. Your hand previously on his shoulder slowly slips down to his chest. And when the song ends, he halts, eyes connected to yours as they have been for every measure, every note, of the music carrying the two of you. Your chest rises and falls, his remains still, not even breaking a sweat from any of it. In the absense of the music, there was nothing. Silence. Empty, intimate space where the world around you was nonexistent.
"Je dois y aller, mademoiselle." I must go, miss.
"S'il vous plaît, ne le faites pas." Please don't
"Je dois le faire avant de faire quelque chose d'irréparable." I must before I do something I cannot take back.
"Dites-moi votre nom, Monsieur." Tell me your name, Sir. You squeeze his hand, holding it with both of yours. "S'il vous plaît... avant de partir, je dois savoir." Please… before you leave, I must know.
"Armand."
"Armand." you echo, one of your hands moving to his chest without realizing. "Je penserai à toi, Armand." I will think of you.
"Au revoir." Goodbye. He slips from your hands and the air feels as though it has been knocked from your chest, hollowing your lungs. You quickly left after that, hoping with a desperation that you'd see him once you went outside... but all you could see was your carriage at the bottom of the steps, waiting for you.
He plagued your mind like a fever. Your etiquette lessons fell on deaf ears. You could focus on nothing... spending most of your time in your room, writing by candlelight in your journal. And nearly every sentence was simply a plea, a thought, a yearning for him. A man whose face you never got to see, but his eyes... his touch-- it stuck with you. It was sealed into your skin like cold sweats. He haunted your nights, slipping into your dreams, touch so vivid it felt as though he was really there... but every time you woke from your slumber, hoping to find him, he wasn't there.
Unexplainable, following an abrupt waking, you find yourself slipping out of bed and traveling down the stairs to leave your home. Yet another dream had tormented you, and a prayer echoed in your mind that air would sober you. Your bare feet bring you past the yard of your family’s estate. Outside, guided by nothing but the moonlight, your only light source as you stumble onto the nearby cobblestone street.
Dew from the night air laid among the cobblestones under the flesh of your feet. A light, patchy fog lingered across the expanse of the path. You walk, unsure of where to, absent in mind as you walk forward. Nightgown clinging to you, the long skirt of it went to your ankles, it lightly swaying in the night’s wind.
Footsteps along cobblestones begin to linger behind you, the steps much louder than your own as the owner clearly had shoes on… Your body shivers, trembles wracking you in waves. You take one step back, turning to look behind. The silhouette of a man in the dark, eerily it was familiar to you. Your eyes were failing you, not even the moonlight could bring your eyes any closer to clear recognition. He continues to walk towards you, you take hesitant, fearful steps back. Until... you can't. He brought you to a moment, where all could only disappear into silence. Caught in a glamour the closer the silhouette gets. You stand, debilitated by the eyes that you now recognize, his steps pause. He was still in the mask... robbing you of the sight of the entirety of his face you had an abundant alacrity to know.
You wanted to memorize every pore...
He steps to his right with slow deliberate steps... circling you, his eyes scanning every detail of you.
"Il fait terriblement froid dehors comme ça..." Awfully cold to be out like this… "Mademoiselle" the title came in the form of a whisper, a breath of him, brushing over your ear even despite the distance between you he was failing to close despite your mind's wishes for it... "Mauvais rêve ?" Bad dream?
"Non." You could say nothing else... you didn't trust yourself to.
His steps come closer, figure behind you... His hands hesitantly slip over your arms, sliding down slowly as he whispers to you.
"J'entends votre cœur. Je me demande… qu'est-ce qui peut bien faire battre votre cœur à tout rompre, ou… qui ?" I can hear your heart. I wonder... what could possibly be making your blood race, or... who? His lips brush the back of your ear, breath like smoke rippling over your skin... your body, from where he was touching you outward feels goosebumps spread. You stay quiet. "Quoi… ou qui ?" What... or who?
"Toi." You. A confession whispered through your shakiness...
"Mm." A hum. Simple, but frustrating in response to your vulnerabilities so blatantly on display for him. "Tu m'as attendu ?" You've waited for me?
"Je le suis toujours." I still am.
"Vous devez être patient" You must be patient.
"Je ne veux pas l'être. J'avais envie de te voir." I do not want to be. I've wanted to see you.
He turns your face to the direction of your home. "Votre balcon." Your balcony. "Chaque nuit." Every night. His hand caresses your cheek, resting his head against yours, his other hand slipping from your arm to your shoulder, his body pressing against you from behind. "À distance, jusqu'au moment venu." From a distance until the time comes.
Your eyes close briefly... but in a panic when you feel every part of him leave you, your eyes open. Looking around you... it was like he was never there. You ran back to your home. The high was lost; you were sober now.
Like a fool when you step into your bedroom, you found yourself rushing to your balcony. You wait there an hour, before dragging yourself back to your bed. He wasn’t there.
But in your dreams he was... and when the sun rose and set, you went to your balcony…
He stood, still in his mask, looking up at you. You rest your arms on the railing.
“Mon ange” The words came from him, but his lips did not move…perhaps they did… maybe you were simply fatigued. You’d been rather tired. Restless from your dreams, waking up feeling as though hands had traveled across your skin only to see no one there.
Seeing him did nothing to quell your wishes to see him. The longing had grown, an avarice welling within your heart. You need him to be near. He was too far for your liking.
“Monsieur.” You call to him, motioning for him to come up to the balcony. He glances at the door, looking back up at you before taking hesitant steps. You rush down to let him in, practically running down the stairs, opening the door for him. He walks into the room, you wordlessly lead him to your bedroom and to the balcony. You sit, and he sits with you, immediately. The air shifts, a feeling you’ve never felt before, at least not with him. Less need for a guard.
“You’re here,” you say, glancing at him.
He nods, “I am. I said I would be.”
“Will you be here tomorrow?” You adjust, resting your back against the balcony to face him.
“And the next night, and the one after that.”
“Are you an angel?” You smile softly, head tilting.
His head tilts, mimicking the movement of yours, mirroring you. “An angel?”
“Oui.” You nod, “an angel.”
He shakes his head, “Non.”
“Hm.” You nod, you crawl closer, sitting on your knees in front of him. “How long have you come here?”
“Since that night,” he confesses, his eyes trailing down your face, landing on your neck. You look over the details of his face that are visible to you. The mask… your hand reaches, hovers near his face. He glances at the fingertips. Your hand smooths over his jaw up to the edge of the mask. His breath hitches when he feels your hand, soaking in the physical touch, his eyelashes fluttering as he closes his eyes. His lips were slightly parted, he was beautiful… your hand inches closer to the edge of the mask. You try to lift it to take it off, but his hand rushes to grasp your wrist. Eyes piercing yours, irises burning fierce, pupils aiming directly for yours.
“Don’t, Mademoiselle.” The words were soft, harsh, low. You nod, fingertips forming a loose fist so he knew you wouldn’t reach for the mask again. His hand releases your wrist with care. “Très bien,” his praise has an embarrassing effect fluttering within you. Your chest feeling a pressure from restraint. You rest your hand on your lap, running, holding your own wrist he'd held... tracing where his fingers had been.
"How long do you stay?"
"Most of the night."
Your eyes meet his, "You don't sleep?"
"Not when you do, mon ange." He looks at you, "You haven't been sleeping well, have you?"
You look down, "I've slept fine."
He shakes his head, "Come." He stands, offering you his hand. You take it and he lifts you in his arms, walking you to your bed. Tucking you in gently, carefully, with a soft touch as he sweeps hair out of your eyes. He sits on the edge of the bed. "Rest, mon ange." His whispers wash over you with a tenderness. A drowsy feeling settling into you, your body becoming weightless. The usual persistent dreams accompany you with the feeling of his hands...
He visits you each night, asking about your day. He only allows you to stay up and talk to him if he's sure you aren't too tired to do so. On the nights he makes you go to sleep early, you usually wake to a flower on your bedside table... an apology for not being able enjoy his company for as long as desired.
One night... he wasn't there. An odd occurrence since it had been over a month of him visiting you on your balcony. It worried you. And when you woke after that night of worrying, tossing and turning in your bed... a flower and a letter sat on your bedside table.
"Mon Ange,
Sincerest apologies for my absence, I had a prior engagement. You must meet me at eight o'clock. Same place we met, don't keep me waiting. I'll send a carriage.
Yours, Armand."
The carriage pulls to a halt, horse hooves clicking lightly against the cobblestones as they come to a stop. The coachman opens your door for you. You bow your head slightly as you step out, thanking him.
Walking up the stairs, your heart rushes the closer you get. Your shoes echo with your steps as you travel inside the building. It was dim, empty, not as many candles lighting the room as there were that night. The air was heavy... or maybe that was just your corset. Either way, your breaths weren't coming to you as easy as they normally would.
“Très bien,” a praise echoes behind you, the soft words followed by steps, his steps. "You're early."
"You wanted to see me."
"Very much, mon ange." He circles you, pausing in front of you before stepping closer. His face, still adorned in the mask, only lit faintly by candlelight. You step closer to him, closing distance. Your hand lifts, caressing his jaw, head tilting as you watch him lean into your touch-- as he always does. Your thumb caresses the skin above his jawline. His eyes close, taking a soft breath. He was consistent with this. He craves physical touch, his body language conveys it to you anytime he is near you.
"Please," you plea softly. You wanted to remove the mask...to see him. Bare witness to all of him.
"Please?" He echoes, eyes still closed.
Your hand lifts the bottom edge of his mask. His eyes open, one of his hands grabbing your wrist, but it was too late. You drop his mask. His eyes glare as they observe every inch, every muscle, every pore-- focused entirely on your expression. His lips parted and you could see the fangs he had, you hadn't seen them before.
"Now I see you," you whisper.
"And do you still like what you see?" He asks, the words soft, harsh, low. Restraining his anger as the fire in his eyes grows, his grip on your wrist tighter.
"You thought I would not?" Your other hand goes to touch his face, allowing the opposite to remain in his grip. Your fingertips do not get the chance to caress his skin, his other hand grabs the one reaching for him. He pulls your hands down to your sides before pulling your body against his, kissing you. He steals your breath, one hand planted on your back, keeping you pressed against his chest as the other rests flat on the fabric of your dress robe. His hand slides up the fabric until the fabric ends, fingers meeting your bare skin as the hand travels over your chest. Your breath hitches against his lip, he doesn't stop. No pressure applied as his hand lightly wanders.
His lips parting from you doesn't last. He leans down, your head tilting back when you feel the position of his. His nose slid across the skin over the side of your neck, lips softly pressing to the skin. His tongue trails up ever so slightly as he kisses the skin. The hand once on your chest moving down to join the other on your back. You were scared to breathe.
"I can feel your pulse on my tongue," he says the words against your skin. "Am I making your heart race?"
"Yes."
“Très bien."
You can feel your skirts lifting, his hands bunch the fabric of them, lifting your body without warning and plopping you down onto the nearest table. Your eyes widen, feeling one of his hands push you down by a hand on your chest before sliding down your dress journeying over bust and corset to your lifted skirts. His hands position in the bends of your knees, pushing your legs up and out. You look at the ornate ceiling above, chest frantically rising and falling as you feel the tip of his nose brush over the back of your inner thigh. Breath from his lips passing over the skin before you feel the distance between mouth and thigh close. His fangs graze over you, and then you can feel his mouth open wider before his teeth sink into you. You let out a pathetic whimper, feeling your blood travel from your body to his. A groan is muffled, pressed into your thigh as he continues to sip at the wine of your flesh, drinking from your vein. Shamefully, every bit of it stirred something in you. You could feel it drip from between your legs, ache collecting in the depths of you. A tender kiss and his tongue sliding over punctures tells you he had finished that part of his indulgence, the punctures tingle before you stop feeling them-- as if they were never there.
You could feel the silk of his hair brushing against both your spread thighs, his mouth was hovering over your cunt. His tongue slides from your perineum, catching everything that could drip down, seeking your taste as his tongue travels up ever so torturous, teasingly slow. Circling your clitoris before his tongue slips down inside you, sucking vulgarly as your legs shake and your mouth opens to cry. You could only grip at your skirts, doing your best to stay still even as muscles twitched in your body, but you willed yourself not to even think of squirming under him. Your body was his altar, and this was his worship. On his knees for you as he drinks your offerings with the desperation of a dehydrated man stranded in a dessert finding his oasis, blessed. No intentions of stopping until you fall from the precipice, his hands gently grip at the back of your thighs he held apart steadily. His claws slightly dig into the skin. You could only gasp as your eyes close, vision straying as the muscles in your abdomen twitch. The little death. He took everything you gave him, and even when there was nothing else to give he didn't stop until you whined from physical pain, overwhelmed and overstimulated, nerves shot between your tense, shaky legs.
He stands, "Keep your legs apart." it was a demand, one that you physically could not defy. You could hear the fabric of his pants rustling, before you felt him once more.
"Is this what you want?" He asks, pulling your body closer to him harshly, palms flattening by your sides on the table.
"Yes, monsieur," you whisper, looking into his eyes, your chest rising and falling, the action briefly calling his attention.
"You won't be able to marry."
You say nothing.
"You won't have children." One of his hands reaches down. "You won't see your little sisters, or your overbearing mother." He lets out a gasp, stroking himself, looking down at himself briefly.
"You're going to die."
The words make you freeze, he looks up at you.
"And you will be reborn." He leans further over you, his bare thighs pressed to the backs of yours, legs still spread for him. "Say please."
"Please," you beg.
You gasp when you feel him push into you, inch by inch slipping inside you, a stretch with a slight sting and pleasant pressure filling you before he stops, a heavy breath escaping him.
"Decades roaming this Earth and it has taken me this long to find you." He whispers, leaning down to kiss you, his hips rolling into you as soft moans slip between you. When he parts from you, "I'll pass my sickness, infect you as mine," he whispers with labored breath as he fucks into you, pressing his lips to yours as though he needed your kiss to live.
His hands slip up, grasping your waist as he continues thrusting inside you, groaning against your lips. The table beneath you creaks, the furniture scraping the floor, but neither of you cared, way too lost in each other. He parts from you, nose brushing against yours briefly before his hips roll further into you, harsher, faster. He revels in your whimpers, ravaging you with a muted violence, a territorial claim of his hunted prey.
"Do you want it?" He asks, teeth slightly gritting as he restrains. "A trade. Passing of your current life, to one with me."
"You accept," the words echo in your head. You nod through your shakiness, through your quiet moans.
"Words, mon amour," he commands.
"Yes."
A hand slips into your hair, harshly gripping as your neck is bared to him, head lifted by force. Fangs abrupt, penetrating the skin, drinking from your neck. His hips remain in constant motion, thrusting over and over, his cock twitching inside you as he gets his fill of the blood he steals from your veins. You can feel your body becoming weaker, even as the pleasure wracks you in waves. His mouth parts from your neck, his thrusts slowing as he takes his wrist, ripping some of the skin open with his teeth. He presses it to your lips, your hands grip the offering. Your weak body gaining more energy the moment the blood begins to slide down your throat. Eagerly you consume it, feeling your slowed heart pump faster, faster, dancing with his as you drink the renaissance he offered you from his vein. His hips speed up, grunting as his hair slips from where it had been tied back, the silk falling around his face. You moan against his skin, gulping as your cunt kegels around his dick, you fall from the precipice, cumming around him. He forces his wrist from you. His hips halt as he grunts, feeling your cunt squeeze him as he spills inside of you, whimpering. He rests his body on top of you.
"There will be pain," he breathes the words against your ear, "Sweet pain, mon ange" he whispers.
"And then you will be mine, past the point of no return."